L.A. Son Read online

  IF YOU COUNTED all the Asians living in Los Angeles in 1970—Vietnamese, Koreans, Chinese, Japanese, an entire continent of ethnicities clumped together as one—the total number would have been 240,000. That was just 2 percent of the population of L.A. at the time. Thanks to a federal law that lifted immigration restrictions in 1965, people from all over Asia streamed into L.A. in significant numbers in the early and mid-1970s. When the Koreans got here, they didn’t intend to take over the part of town that was once Old Hollywood. It just ended up happening that way.

  Old Hollywood, along Olympic and Wilshire Boulevards, was where the entertainment industry partied in Hollywood’s glory years. But by 1950 or so, the party shifted westward, and the big Jewish and European populations living in the area transplanted west, too. The buildings and apartments in the historic core of L.A. emptied, and whole city blocks became run-down and scruffy. Old Hollywood faded, a ghost town in a themeless park.

  By the 1960s the real estate in the area was cheap, dirt cheap. The Koreans coming into the city in the early 1970s discovered the low rents and hunkered down. And while they didn’t start out with much, they managed to transform the dilapidated three-square-mile neighborhood into a bona fide bustling Koreatown, now home to the largest Korean population outside of Seoul.

  It all started with a pot and a bunch of people. There had to be some trust in the group, or it was all for nothing. Every month everyone met and shared stories and dreams, and, in the course of all that, everyone decided on an amount. Then everyone anted up. Each month, one person got the jackpot and opened a business. A liquor store, dry cleaner, gas station, small restaurant, trophy shop, golf store, whatever. Something. As each person built a business, his or her share of the pot increased so new families could get on their feet. It was thanks to these kyae meetings that the ghost town came alive.

  When our day came to take the pot, my dad snatched up that Johnnie Walker. He opened a liquor store on 9th Street and Vermont Avenue in Koreatown, and he was so proud of it. So proud. He polished and cleaned till the place was so shiny you couldn’t turn around without catching your own reflection. I remember the candies and liquor bottles. I remember the glass storefront. My dad’s proud smile.

  At home my mom was possessed by a brilliant compulsion to cook. Every morning she was up at 4:30 A.M., and a huge breakfast feast would be waiting for me when I woke up. But in those early days you couldn’t walk down the street and take your pick of kimchis. No, we trekked across Southern California to find certain ingredients. We went to Santa Barbara for abalone that would be in that night’s bowl of porridge. Goleta for dandelion greens for crab and tofu stew. Indio for bean sprouts to complete my mom’s bi bim bap. The piers in Newport for rock cod, but only if we got there by 6:30 A.M. and only if we were first in line. At the very least, we would get freshly caught fish and hang them, salted, on our porch like laundry drying on the line.

  And all the while, every night, my parents fed me from their fingertips. The sohn-maash had made it stateside.

  CLOSER TO HOME, we took in the City of Angels. We took in America. I started watching Happy Days, and the Fonz became my idol. He was everything to me. He was the guy who never fit in, but only because he was too cool for school. He would say his “Ayyyyye,” laugh, and give a thumbs-up to all those things he approved. I loved his touch: he could just be holding a float or a milk shake, and it was better than how anyone had ever held a float or milk shake. Or he could just hit something that was broken, and it not only worked again but worked better!

  The Fonz had Arnold’s for his hamburgers and shakes; we had Tommy’s. We drove our faded blue Peugeot with ripped upholstery to the original redbrick Tommy’s on Beverly and Rampart. Any trip to Tommy’s was like sinking into a plush movie theater seat with a fresh tub of popcorn with real butter or lying down on clean sheets after a long day: time was frozen at the exact moment when everything was just right. I was protected, safe. I loved the look on my dad’s face when we were standing in line for goopy chili tamales, no tomato, extra onions, and an ice-cold orange Crush. I loved the open air, the sun as it hit our car hood. I loved the people around us, standing single file before scurrying off to the rails to stand and eat. I loved the hills as they sloped down from Rampart to the north and Beverly to the east.

  We hit Dodgers games in Echo Park with other Korean families, all of us in the bleachers, watching the fabulous four of Ron Cey, Bill Russell, Davey Lopes, and Steve Garvey. We saw the same families over and over again at Dong Il Jang on 8th near Western, one of the first grand, opulent restaurants in Koreatown. Up until then, most places had been just small mom-and-pop joints, places to grab a seat, eat your thing, and go. Dong Il Jang, though, was a big place cloaked in elaborate Chosun period architecture, bamboo, and rice paper. Inside there were big booths and a big party room. At the same time, though, it was, and is, still a place you could imagine your grandfather sitting, with a newspaper, slurping on some noodles, gnawing on some short rib bones. From those rib bones to the bubbling stews to the kimchis to the Korean-style floor seating, you could devour what amounts to a whole cow here and then wash it all down with fried rice swirled in meat juices and kimchi stains. Classic.

  My parents took me with them to the movies at night, and I remember watching Midnight Express and afterward chowing down on chili spaghetti at Bob’s Big Boy. My dad used to be a fruit stocker and janitor at Grand Central Market, a smaller version of Seattle’s Pike Place in Downtown. I was at my dad’s hip, tasting and squirreling apples, pineapples, scallions, garlic, carrots, boysenberries, rhubarb, dried beans, and nuts away in my pocket. I thought I was real slick. And of course we hit all the important landmarks: whirled in the teacups at Disneyland, screamed on the Log Jammer at Magic Mountain, and clapped when Shamu leaped high out of the water at Sea World. I dreamed of being a tour guide and showing people all these places I was seeing.

  And the birthday parties! The parties celebrating my birth at four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten years were banging! You know how Western tourists go to Asia and just have to participate in the sacred, mystical Oriental ritual known as a tea ceremony? Because they think this is what we do, even if we don’t? For my parents, throwing birthday parties for their son was their tea ceremony, their attempt to connect spiritually to their new American culture. They had no idea what the fuck they were doing or why, but somewhere they learned or read or saw or heard that that was how American kids in the 1970s celebrated their birthdays. This explains the magicians—goddamn magicians—at my birthday parties, and the clown with tricks up his billowy sleeves, and a man on stilts walking with rented-by-the-hour animals. And a pool party one year, Chuck E. Cheese’s another. They were creating memories that were as new and foreign to them as they were exciting to me.

  But the clouds were gathering.

  I was five years old when my dad’s liquor store sold its last bottle. My parents still kept on with the rented birthday magicians, the big smiles on their faces, the big breakfasts every morning, but I could sense the magic disappearing. By then they had started drinking at home, just a little at first, then a lot more. On those nights I always tried to be a good son, memorizing the English dictionary like my dad told me to do. I’d look up from the words and definitions, though, and watch my parents. They were about sober enough to hand-deliver a hard whack if they heard Korean coming out of me instead of English, but they also were starting to drink enough for their eyes to hollow, their faces to turn that devil’s red. I didn’t need the dictionary to learn the difference between sober and drunk.

  With the family business closed, we moved. And moved again and again as my parents hustled all over town, working at their friends’ gas stations, wig shops, video stores. We bounced around South Central and back up through Crenshaw before finally ending up in West Hollywood in a rent-controlled property that my uncle managed. We were on the second story, surrounded by single mothers and hippies, in a duplex filled with moving boxes torn open as needed.


  My parents tried to dig up a new life in the jewelry business. They went straight to the source, taking dusty field trips out to the local mines to check out the turquoise, fossils, agate, and big mineral pendants that matched the huge sunglasses, long linen dresses, and bell-bottoms that were so popular in the mid-seventies. My dad even studied up at the Gemological Institute of America and became a certified gemologist. Together, he and my mom peddled their wares door-to-door, from our neighborhood all the way up to the boutiques on fancy Sunset Boulevard.

  It’s hard to make a sale with a kid on your back, so my parents left me behind. For two years, until I was about seven, I had a key around my neck but no lock on my life. So I wandered. I walked until I put holes in my soles. And the more hours they clocked, the longer I was alone, ready to be adopted by the city streets. I discovered the urban forest of old palms and sycamores right below Olympic Boulevard. Made my way into alleyways and onto their broken sidewalks. Got lost in the dull lights of the 7-Eleven and swiped candy, chips, beef jerky—why not? I hopped on and off buses, getting off in Koreatown, where I discovered tamales and sniffed out kimchis, some in jars, others in plastic bags. I found hot dogs and carne asada being grilled at the park, studied the jars of soybean paste stocked in market aisles. I rode my way down to Little Tokyo and tasted fish-shaped pastries filled with red beans, grabbed aluminum foils filled with savory pancakes. I saw kids, but most weren’t Koreans or any other type of Asian. Mostly black or white instead. I wondered why I wasn’t them.

  I always managed to get back home before my parents did. When they did finally turn the key in the lock, it was like spinning the wheel of fortune. Sometimes my parents would grab me for a grand trip, like to Oxnard for vegetables. Other times we’d just go to the market for a carton of Marlboro Reds and a handle of Cutty Sark. Or maybe we wouldn’t do either, and they’d just go straight to the bottles and yell and sometimes smack me to blow off some steam, then tell me what a great son I was and cook up a grand feast. I never knew what was coming until it was already done. Whatever we did, our nights usually ended with their friends dropping in and empty bottles and red cigarette boxes littering the coffee table. Food, booze, smoke, and chatter. Just a little weeknight get-together. Nothing wrong with that, right?

  Truth is, I didn’t know what was right or wrong. The English-only rule was supposed to turn me into an American, but that alone didn’t spell out how to actually be American. I still ate kimchi and porridge but got a beat-down if I spoke Korean, so, fuck, I didn’t even know how to be Korean either. Everything was all a jumble.

  So what does a bewildered, lonely boy who can’t find the right words do? Throw up the Bat Signal, of course. Get some outside help. And the Fonz, my great American superhero, answered the call. He swooped in with his Fonzie touch, his thumb of approval, and gave me some confidence.

  This being the city where dreams are made, it just so happened that my neighbor’s mom worked at Paramount Studios, where Happy Days was filmed. She got us special passes to meet him.

  I was so fucking excited.

  On that great day, we went through the famous gates. Walked onto Paramount’s famous studio lot. The Fonz was busy when we found him. I know my friend and I were probably the least important things on Henry Winkler’s agenda that day, but he was the Fonz, man. Classy above all, a drink of water for a parched soul. He stopped what he had been doing and did all the niceties for us. But beyond that, he looked at me and said something without words. He somehow told me that shit would get deep, but to hang in there, because I had an interesting road ahead.

  And he gave me the thumbs-up.

  Fuck, the Fonz read my palm when all I was looking for was his thumb.

  That was it. Whatever my parents were going to do that night suddenly didn’t matter. Something inside me unjumbled and fell into place, like a code had been cracked. I looked at that thumb, and a deep part of me saw the flavors in our fingertips. On a level I wasn’t even aware of, I was encouraged to make that a part of my life. Touch of gold. Everything’s better. Sohn-maash.

  KIMCHI

  * * *

  A car needs gas; as a kid, I needed kimchi. Everything I am comes from kimchi. Kimchi plus a bowl of rice equals a meal for me. Hot dogs and kimchi? Sure. The La Brea Tar Pits in Los Angeles bubbled slowly throughout my life, and they always reminded me of the jars of fermenting kimchi that filled our refrigerators. In a way, all that kimchi took this long to ferment within me.

  Always slurp the first batch from the bowl with your fingertips before it goes into the jar. Industrial gloves for mixing are optional but recommended.

  MAKES 1 BIG JAR

  PASTE

  1 cup kochukaru

  1 cup peeled onion

  ½ cup water

  15 garlic cloves, peeled

  ¼ cup peeled and chopped fresh ginger

  2 tablespoons kosher salt

  2 tablespoons sugar

  ¼ cup plus 2 tablespoons fish sauce

  2 tablespoons oyster sauce

  2 tablespoons natural rice vinegar (not seasoned)

  1 tablespoon soy sauce

  VEGETABLES

  4 cups water

  1 tablespoon kosher salt

  1 large napa cabbage

  ½ bunch fresh chives, cut into 1-inch batons

  ½ cup jarred oysters

  1 tablespoon salted baby shrimp

  Put all the ingredients for the paste in a blender, puree, and set aside.

  In a bowl large enough to hold the cabbage, mix the water with the salt. Split the cabbage in half and soak it in the salted water for 2 to 3 hours at room temperature.

  Drain the cabbage. Mix ½ cup of the paste, the chives, oysters, and salted shrimp and layer between the leaves of the cabbage. Coat the exterior of the cabbage with the remaining paste.

  This is when you cut off a leaf and slurp.

  Stuff the cabbage into a gallon-size glass pickle jar and seal tightly. If it doesn’t fit, you can cut the cabbage in half again.

  Keep the jar at room temperature for 2 days, then put it in the refrigerator. It will be ready to eat in about 2 weeks and can be kept refrigerated indefinitely.

  ABALONE PORRIDGE

  * * *

  The island of Cheju is famous for its abalone porridge, and Los Angeles has a place called Mountain Cafe on 8th Street in Koreatown that does the best version of the dish. But people who eat abalone porridge on a regular basis know it’s best eaten at home with family, especially when you have a toothache. This is how I do it. Hope you enjoy.

  For the anchovy stock, homemade is best, but you can also use canned anchovy stock, fish stock, chicken stock, or even instant dashi broth.

  SERVES 4

  ANCHOVY STOCK

  1 cup dried anchovies

  13 cups water

  PORRIDGE

  8 cups cooked white rice

  2 tablespoons plus 2 teaspoons minced peeled fresh ginger

  2 tablespoons Asian sesame oil

  2 tablespoons roasted sesame seeds

  8 ounces Santa Barbara abalone, pounded and diced, or chopped fresh or canned clams

  Big pinch each of kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

  4 eggs

  1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon thinly sliced scallions

  Bottle of soy sauce for the table

  To make the anchovy stock, combine the anchovies and water in a medium pot over low heat and simmer for 1 hour. Drain through a sieve and set aside. You should have about 3 quarts.

  To make the porridge, combine the rice and stock in a large pot and bring it to a boil. Reduce the heat to a simmer and cook until the rice starts to become bloated, about 10 minutes, stirring the rice often. Add the ginger, sesame oil, sesame seeds, and abalone.

  Over very low heat—lower than a simmer; you’re looking for one bubble to pop on the surface every now and then—cook until thick but still viscous, about 20 minutes. Season with the salt and pepper.

  Pour the porridge into
4 bowls, crack an egg into each, and top with scallions.

  Splash in soy sauce as desired and GET DOWN.

  TWICE-COOKED DUCK FAT FRIES

  * * *

  As a kid, I loved going to Tommy’s Burgers with my dad, the sun setting low and slow as we pulled up to the tiny shack and got in line to order burgers and fries. Those were such simple things, but sometimes the things that look the simplest take the most care. And these duck fat fries using potatoes, sweet potatoes, and yuca are a take on that—yeah, they might take a little while, but the process of making these isn’t a burden as much as it is hidden dedication. Do it with care; then the fun will come from eating it. Things that come in threes must be good, right?

  SERVES 4

  2 cups canola oil

  2⅔ cups duck fat

  8 ounces Idaho potatoes, peeled and cut lengthwise into ¼-inch-thick batons and held in water

  8 ounces sweet potatoes, peeled and cut lengthwise into ¼-inch-thick batons and held in water

  8 ounces yuca, peeled and cut lengthwise into ¼-inch-thick batons and held in water

  Sea salt

  Limes, halved

  1 bunch Thai basil leaves

  In a deep fryer or a very large, deep pot—whatever you got, man—heat the canola oil and duck fat to 250°F. If you don’t have a food thermometer, you’ll know the fat is hot enough when you drop one test fry in there and it sizzles slightly.

  Line a sheet pan with paper towels and grab a big metal spider strainer for scooping the fries out of the fat. Dry the potatoes and yuca after removing them from the water.